


not out loud

by skuls



Series: William AU [4]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 16:57:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14958497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skuls/pseuds/skuls
Summary: Seven times Mulder communicated (telepathically) with his son.





	not out loud

**Author's Note:**

> written mostly to alleviate my writer's block, and also in time for father's day. this fic more or less spans the timeline of the other stories in this series, and show alternate or further perspectives on scenes from silent conversations and noises echoing. i don't really know what this is.
> 
> thanks to firstofoctober for encouraging me to write this and loving this series as much as i do.

**i.**

It's been two years since Mulder left Scully, left his son, and the guilt of that haunts him every fucking day.

He always told it was just a few weeks, a month or two, but it's become so much longer for the sole reason that he is scared. He is terrified of what will happen to Scully and William if he goes back, terrified of what will happen to them if he doesn't. About a year ago, right about when he was considering heading back to Virginia to look for a lead (something about the end of the world), they found him, him and Gibson in the desert. The poor kid never saw it coming. They got away, miraculously, but that seemed to solidify it for Mulder: it wasn't safe. And he couldn't risk William and Scully. So he made sure Gibson got to safety and he hit the road. 

The loneliness is what does it, he thinks, the loneliness and the guilt. Tempts him into going back home. He's living on edge, jumping at every odd sound. He has dreams, unusual dreams that he doesn't know how to explain. He'll be lying in a crappy hotel bed or in the back of his car or in a sleeping bag out in the woods, he'll drift off, and then the next thing he knows, he is lying in a foggy version of where he fell asleep. He can't move, pinned in place, unable to speak. He usually hears laughter then—not menacing laughter, not in the horror movie sense, but menacing in another sense. The giggles of a toddler, a toddler that reminds him of his son. His son, who he walked out on after only three days and who he hasn't seen in years. His family who he left alone. 

The dreams always shake him to the core. Make him miss Scully, miss William more than anything. One night, he dreams his son is sitting by him while he is unable to move. William giggles, pressing his hands to Mulder's face. “Hi, Daddy,” he says. 

Mulder tries to move, to hug the image of his son even though he knows it isn't real. “Will,” he whispers, tears pricking at his eyes. 

William leans down and kisses the tip of his nose with toddler sloppiness. “Miss you, Daddy,” he says, and Mulder can't help but wonder if this is real, if William even knows who he is. When he wakes up, he is in tears. 

He decides then and there, wedged in the back seat of his car, that he is going home. If he hasn't found anything yet, then he never will, and two years is too long. He hasn't felt like he's in danger, being pursued, since he left the New Mexico desert. If the danger is there, they'll deal with it, but he needs to see his family. 

He drives home immediately, traveling through the next day and into the night. He catches a few hours of sleep on the side of the road and dreams of nothing, his mind blank and dark. He drives into Virginia, nerves buzzing from the inside out. He has no idea how Scully is going to respond. If she'll be happy to see him, if she'll be angry. If she'll be cold, turning away and muttering something under her breath that will sting like a slap to the face. If their time apart will have changed her to a point where he doesn't know who she is anymore. He wonders if his son won't know him. He thinks that Will can't possibly know him, because he was only three days old when he left, and now, and now he is two years old. No matter what his muddled dreams are, his son cannot know him.  _ It's not going to be the way it was before,  _ he tells himself again and again, staring out of the windshield. But parking in front of Scully's apartment building for the first time in two years gives him a guilty pleasure. This is it, he's going to see them again. 

He rides the elevator up to Scully's floor, his hands slick with nervous sweat. He walks down the hall and has a distinct memory of coming to see Scully and Will after he was born, of the night he walked away. He thinks of the weight of his son in his arms and sniffs back tears, wipes his eyes as he approaches Scully's door. He wonders if William looks the way he has in the dreams, all huge dark eyes like Samantha and Scully's freckles along his nose. He can barely knock, he is trembling so hard.

There is no answer. He counts to thirty in his head before knocking again, the way his mom had taught him (to be polite) when he had to help Samantha sell Girl Scout cookies. Still no answer. No squeals or yelps of a young boy inside, no footsteps or calls of just a minute. Mulder swallows back his nervousness. Maybe they have moved, he considers. Maybe they will not be back for hours. Maybe he is not welcome. He stares hard at the gold numbers on the door, scenarios flashing through his head, and he is so lost in thought that he doesn't hear the footsteps. Doesn't move until he hears a cheerful toddler voice chirp, “Daddy!” There is a thumping sound behind him. 

Mulder turns and sees them. Scully with her hair longer, tumbling past her shoulder, an astonished look on her face. Grocery bags at her feet. And William, wriggling in her arms with excitement. He looks exactly the same as he did in Mulder's dream. 

Mulder steps closer without thinking, laughing uncertainly. “I, uh,” he tries. “I didn't have my keys, Scully.”

He doesn't know why he says that, because it sounds utterly idiotic in his mouth, but Scully doesn't seem to mind. Her chin is trembling; she steps closer to him, and he wraps his arms around them both. Scully is smiling as tears well up in her eyes, and she whispers his name before leaning in to pepper the side of his face with kisses. William giggles, his little hands against Mulder's chest as he's smushed between them. He hugs them both closer. “You came back,” Scully says, and he kisses her fiercely, two years deep. He reaches down to cup his son's tousled head. 

“Daddy's back,” his son says, almost toddler-smug. “Told you, Mama.” 

Mulder pulls away to look at his son, bigger than he'd expected in his mother's arms. Scully is still smiling wobbily, reaching up to smooth his hair. “He knows me?” Mulder asks in a trembling voice. 

Scully nods and lifts William, setting him in the cradle of Mulder's arms. Mulder holds him carefully, almost frightened. “Daddy!” William says, delighted, wrapping his arms around his neck. Mulder kisses the top of his head, overwhelmed. Scully rests her head on his bicep, reaching up to place her hand on William's back. 

“Hey, buddy,” Mulder whispers in his son's ear. “I missed you. So much.”

William burrows into him, burying his sticky face in Mulder's neck. Mulder sniffles, adjusting his weight in his arms and kissing his head again as William's little shoes dig into his ribs. 

Scully rises up on tiptoe and kisses him briefly. “Come inside, Mulder,” she whispers, stroking the side of his face. William snuffles into his collarbone, clinging hard to his neck. “I've got ice cream I need to get in the freezer.”

Mulder chuckles, caught off guard. He turns with his son in his arms as Scully unlocks the door and carries him inside.

  
  


**ii.**

Sometime after midnight, Mulder is woken up from a deep sleep to the sound of his son's voice.  _ Daddy,  _ he's saying loudly, so loud that it sounds like he's standing right next to him. Mulder sits up, rubbing at his eyes, and looks around, but William isn't there. The room is silent aside from Scully's gentle breathing. And then he hears it again, William's insistent,  _ Daddy _ . 

Mulder groans a little, climbing out of bed. He pads down the hall quietly, blinking a few times in an attempt to acclimate himself to his new surroundings. It's strange being in a house this big after living in Scully's apartment for three years, large and lonely and creaky, the silence as a result of being miles away from civilization nearly deafening. He reaches William's room and pushes the door open gently. He's awake, just like Mulder expected, sitting up in bed with the new puppy (named Fedallah by Scully, and nicknamed Fed by William, who thinks it is hilarious because of his parents’ former jobs) wriggling at the end of the bed. He tops excitedly as Mulder enters. “You need to quiet down in here, buddy,” Mulder whispers, scooping up Fed and putting him on the floor. “I could hear you all the way down the hall; you're going to wake your mom. And you know the dog isn't supposed to be in here.” 

_ I'm scared, Daddy,  _ William says, and it takes Mulder a few moments to realize that he isn't speaking out loud. 

“Will, are you…” He hesitates, blinking rapidly in surprise, tries it silently:  _ Can you hear me?  _

_ Uh-huh,  _ William says— _ thinks _ , Mulder finishes incredulously—in a this-should-be-obvious sort of way. He rests his chin on the bear he's hugging in his arm. Fed jumps up on the bed and starts to chew on Mulder's shirttail. 

Mulder's definitely not the best at disciplining the dog or at unpacking telepathic communication at twelve at night, so he just goes with it. After several different incidents with things ranging from telepathy to clairvoyance, this is one of the less surprising things. He tugs his shirt out of Fed’s mouth and reaches out to smooth Will's wild hair.  _ What's wrong, buddy?  _ he thinks, feeling strange, feeling like there's no way Will can  _ actually _ hear him.  _ Why are you scared? _

_ I had a nightmare.  _ William crawls into his lap, dragging the teddy with him. He's tearful, burying his face against Mulder's t-shirt. 

Mulder wraps his arms around William, rocking him back and forth a little. “What'd you have a nightmare about?” he whispers out loud.  

_ A monster. He was hiding in the closet and he said he was going to eat me.  _ William clings hard to Mulder, sniffling loudly. 

As sorry as Mulder feels for the kid (he can remember his own childhood nightmares, after all), he also can't help but be glad that it was  _ him  _ that William inexplicably, telepathically called for and not Scully. Mostly because he's fairly sure this nightmare is a result of the monstrous bedtime stories William has  _ insisted _ on for the past week. “Hey, hey, Will,” he whispers softly, trying to detach William's clinging arms. “It's okay, buddy. It's okay. I'm right here, and so is Fed.” The dog growls playfully, and Mulder shoots him a look. “I'm—” he starts before reconsidering, trying again purely out of an attempt at comfort.  _ I'm going to go look in the closet,  _ he thinks at William.  _ And you'll see that nothing's in there. Okay? _

William nods, signifying that he's heard, but he makes no move to let go. Mulder bemusedly detaches his son and checks the closet, an air of caution still around him—because he's dealt with shit like this before, and goddamnit, the new house is creepy. The closet is empty. 

When he turns back to William on the bed, he sees William clutching to the dog desperately. (Mulder gives credit to Fed for letting him; he lies calmly in William's arms, resting his muzzle on the boy's knee. Mulder gives the mutt a few brownie points in advance for the next time he pees on the rug.)  _ You see, Will?  _ he says silently to his son.  _ Nothing in there. It was just a dream. _

William's eyes are wide and teary. “I don't wanna sleep alone in here,” he whispers hoarsely, speaking for the first time out loud. “It's scary.”

Mulder feels a bout of sympathy kick in. “Okay,” he says out loud, tousling William's cow-licked dark hair. “C’mon, and we'll go get in bed with Mama.”

William stands from the bed, taking Fed along with him. Fed is less receptive than being carried by a five-year-old who is technically too small to hold him up, hanging precariously out of Will's arms, and he yelps in protest. Mulder gives William an amused, chiding look, and throws in a wordless,  _ No way _ for effect. (He finds himself suddenly overly conscious of his inner thoughts; can William read his mind at all times or only when he's actually attempting to communicate with him?) William pouts, but he puts Fed down on the ground and pads down the hall with Mulder, clinging to his side all the way back to their bedroom. 

Scully is sitting up in bed when they enter, her long hair tangled around her face. “William?” she asks sleepily, and Mulder finds himself wondering if he's not the only one who heard William. 

“Hi, Mama.” William climbs directly on top of Scully; she huffs out a sharp breath as the wind is knocked out of her, but wraps her arms around Will anyway. “Daddy said I could sleep in here so the monster doesn't get me,” he mumbles into her stomach. 

“Really.” Scully raises her eyebrows at him questioningly. 

Mulder shrugs as he climbs in on the other side. “What can I say? I'm a softy. I made him leave the mutt behind.” He mouths,  _ Bad dream _ over William's head.

Scully rolls her eyes, kisses her son's hair and deposits him in the middle of the bed. “Just for tonight, sweetie,” she says gently, pulling the quilt up and over his shoulders. “But if you're going to do any kicking, you can do it on your dad's side.” William giggles quietly. Mulder shoots her a mock look of hurt, and she raises her eyebrows innocently. 

Mulder settles down on his side of the bed, tousling his kid's hair again. “Get some sleep, Will,” he says quietly. “Your mom has work tomorrow.”

He's almost asleep again, soothed by the rhythmic sound of his wife and son's gentle breaths, when he hears Will's voice in his head again:  _ Daddy? _

He grunts sleepily.  _ Yeah, Will?  _

_ You'd protect me from the monsters, wouldn't you? _

Mulder opens his eyes to see William curled into a ball under the quilt, his eyes squeezed shut as if feigning sleep. Scully's already drifted back off, her hand absently resting on William's back. 

Mulder sleepily leans forward and kisses his son's forehead.  _ Of course,  _ he says silently.  _ Without a doubt. Always. _

  
  


**iii.**

He should've known it was a bad idea to take the Monica Bannan case. He should've backed off after Dakota Whitney died, should've gone home and sat with his son and considered himself damn lucky that it wasn't him. But that old familiar drive for justice—a drive he hasn't felt in years—wouldn’t let him go. He had to find out what happened, had to try and save that second victim. If no one else would get justice for them, he would. 

He finds himself regretting it again, feeling only regret and fear when they inject him with some sedative, when they punch him in the fucking face. He hears Will when he crumples to the ground, hears him shouting,  _ Dad! _ He tries to tell himself that it must be, it has to be his imagination. The drugs are coursing through his system, and he's thinking of the times that he's heard William when he was scared, thinking that William can see him and he doesn't want that. 

His face aches from the fucking kidnapper's fist, and they're dragging him through the snow, and William's voice comes piercing through again, almost as painful as the bruise:  _ They're hurting him, Mom, they're hurting him! Make them stop! _

Mulder groans, desperate, as he's deposited next to a chopping block. He's barely conscious and more afraid than he can put into words—he doesn't want to die, all he can see is his family—but more than that, he doesn't want Will to see what comes next. He tries to get his hand on the axe, but he can't get a good grip, he's so fucking sleepy. The man lugs him onto the chopping block, and William's voice comes through, determined:  _ You're in the right place, Mama, by the mailboxes.  _

Panic courses through him again, fear as he hears the axe being sharpened, and he wants to tell Will not to look, to tell both of them not to, but he can't get the words out. All he can manage is their names, silently, over and over, and the man is raising the axe, and Mulder squeezes his eyes shut just as William screams desperately:  _ Mama, Mama, he has an axe! _ And with a thwack, the man falls to the ground, the axe tumbling out of his hands. 

Scully is bending over him, worry lining her face, and he tells her what she needs to know in a groggy, muddled voice, but his thoughts are on his son. Even as Skinner—Skinner of all people—holds Mulder in an attempt to keep him warm, even as his thoughts tangle into an indecipherable mess and it all begins to fade away, all Mulder can think about is his son. Letting him know he's alive.  _ William,  _ he thinks, even as the darkness rises up to meet him.  _ William, I'm okay. _ Hoping that Will can hear him. 

\---

When he wakes, hours later, William is in the hospital bed beside him, his face pressed somewhere under his arm. Scully's asleep in the chair beside the bed, hair coming out of her ponytail and dark circles under her eyes. Mulder smiles a little with relief, reaches out and brushes his fingers over the top of Scully's hand comfortingly. She mumbles something softly, but doesn't wake up. 

Mulder shifts a little bit to look at William. He's asleep, his eyes screwed shut and his forehead furrowed in a way that reminds Mulder of Scully. His son and his wife saved his life, that poor kid saw all of that. He's more than grateful that he's alive, here with his family, but Jesus Christ, he wishes William hadn't had to see that. All these years, he'd wanted to prevent William from having to suffer through this bullshit. 

William looks far from peaceful, tense as if he's ready to jump up at the first sign of trouble. A look that is way too old for his seven years. Sympathy and guilt building in his throat, Mulder strokes some hair off of his son's forehead, tucks the hospital blanket around him and leans back against the pillow, one hand on his son's shoulder.

_ Dad?  _ The voice is small, silently echoing in Mulder's head, unmistakably Will's.  _ I heard you. When you said you were okay.  _

Mulder looks down at his son and finds him looking up with huge, worried eyes. William suddenly throws his arms around Mulder, hugging him tightly enough to make his ribs ache. Mulder embraces him back, cups the back of Will's head in his palm.  _ I'm glad, buddy,  _ he says.  _ I wanted you to know. _

  
  


**iv.**

There are several times over the next few years that Mulder will hear his son. It lessens as William gets older—it mostly happens when he is either scared or missing Mulder, and situations wherein William is scared have blessedly lessened over the years. (So have the moments wherein William actually misses his father. The mark of a teenager. Besides, on the rare occasion when Mulder or Scully leave town for work, William usually just texts them.) Whatever the extent of William's abilities are, their appearance in day-to-day life is mostly just his knowledge of things without them having to tell him. The things he sees and can't control. The things like the telepathic communication or making people see things don't appear very much anymore. Scully suspects it's because William is using them to play pranks on his friends. Mulder tries to give his son the benefit of the doubt. 

Tries, until there is some trouble at school. A teacher William has been clashing with all year is frightened by the appearance of some monster waiting in her empty classroom after school. On the same day William stays late for what he claimed was a club, just after he failed a test by that teacher. He's found hiding just outside the classroom, and although they have no evidence that he was responsible (of course), he is correctly blamed.

Scully is furious. She has a class she has to teach, so she calls Mulder to go pick Will up, but her anger is palpable over the phone. Mulder’s reaction is more fear than anything else. How many times has he seen this, some dumb kid with powers he doesn't understand who uses it unwisely, for revenge or something, and innocent people get hurt? He swore his son would never do anything like that, and now. 

He finds William outside the principal's office. Will tries to stop him as he enters, says in an insistent whisper, “Dad, they don't have any evidence. They can't prove I did this, they don't even know how… Just play dumb, and we can…” 

Mulder holds out a hand to stop William in his tracks. He motions to the office door silently. A look of extraordinary hurt on his face, William trudges inside reluctantly. 

Mulder apologizes to the principal. He's reluctant to apologize to the teacher William pranked—one brief interaction with her and he can understand why Will did it—but he knows he has to look professional, so he does. The principal agrees that since this is a first time offense, William can just spend a day in detention, and Mulder agrees with that punishment. William sits sullenly in the hard wooden chair and refuses to say anything. 

He's just as quiet in the car as they drive home. “Can you tell me why in the world you thought this was a good idea?” Mulder says sternly, and William huffs a little, staring steelily out the window. Mulder sighs, rubbing at his eyes as they stop at a stop light. “I don't know how many times we've told you, William…” he starts. 

“This isn't fair!” William protests. “That teacher is horrible, and you know it. You  _ know  _ how hard I studied for that test!”

“You can't use your powers on people, William. We've been over this. If you can control it, you shouldn't do it to other people. And I know you can control whether or not you make your teacher see some ghoul thing.”

“This is bullshit,” Will hisses. “You wouldn't care this much if I wasn't a freak.”

“It has nothing to do with that. We'd be upset that you pranked your teacher no matter what. Being petty and childish solves nothing…”

“This isn't fair!” William hits the dashboard hard, an instinctual reaction that Mulder recognizes all too well. “I didn't ask for this! This isn't my fault!”

Mulder falters, his fingers clutching the steering wheel hard. He has no idea if William knows the guilt that they feel, for everything he's been faced with. That Scully has been beating herself up for years over everything that has happened. The fears they have. He takes a deep breath before answering, gingerly. “We know there's certain things that you can't control, William. We understand that. But there was nothing forcing you to show your teacher that monster. It was incredibly irresponsible of you. You could've gotten someone hurt.”

William clenches his jaw, stares straight out of the car window. Mulder sighs, takes the turn to head home. 

Scully is waiting for them, and she's just as furious and fearful as Mulder expected. (He remembers the fight they had, years ago, about whether or not they should take William to a specialist. How upset she was. She carries the guilt for this much heavier than Mulder does.) She scolds William for a few more minutes before sending him up to his room. He's quiet, doesn't argue, but he shoots them both the same hurt look before he storms up the stairs. 

Later that night, after an awkward dinner punctuated by sharp words and long silences, Mulder and Scully are sitting upstairs in bed. Mulder’s in the midst of grading papers when he hears William's voice, small and hurt.  _ I hate this,  _ he says quietly.  _ I hate what I can do. I wish I was normal.  _

Mulder swallows thickly, rubs at his eyes wearily.  _ I know,  _ he says.  _ I'm sorry.  _

Nothing else on William's end. Only silence. Mulder swallows, go back to grading papers.  _ I'm sorry,  _ he offers up again, but William doesn't answer. 

  
  


Soon after Scully and William get home from the hospital, Mulder gets a call with a lead, a hint on the whereabouts of Spender. 

He doesn't want to leave, not after what happened the last time he left them. The attack. His guilt about that still runs deep—they could've killed his wife, his son, before he ever had a chance to help them. William had saved Scully, thrown the assassin off of her and held him against the wall telekinetically, but he never should have had to, because Mulder should have been there. 

He's ready to let the lead go, to stay home with them, but Scully convinces him to go—is actually in the verge of insisting on coming along before he convinces her that someone needs to stay with William. Still, she refuses to let up. “You can't let this lead slide, Mulder,” she says firmly. “It could be the difference between catching the smoker or not.” 

“I can't leave you and Will alone,” he says in a low, worried voice. “What if they come again? I can't risk it.”

“We'll be okay.” She takes his hand and squeezes it, rests her forehead on his shoulder. Her voice is still low and raspy from the assassin’s hand on her throat; he shudders a little at the thought of that. “I'm still an FBI agent, remember?” she adds in an amused voice. “And I have Will. I hate to… use him for protection… but I think it's pretty clear that William is just as capable. We can protect each other.”

Mulder sighs a little, presses his nose into her hair. “I don't like it,” he says. 

“I know.” She rubs a finger over his knuckles. “I don't like it either, sending you out there alone. But you have to go. If the smoker really is after Will—or even after me—then we can't sit back and ignore a possibility to stop him.”

And that—the thought that the smoker will eventually send someone else to hurt his wife and son—is enough to convince him. 

He goes. Drives hours to a fancy house, only to search it and find it abandoned. By this time, he's tired, frustrated, worried about his family. He wants to drive straight home that night, but he's so tired that he can barely keep his eyes open. He pulls off the road and gets a hotel room, lies sprawled on the bed and calls Scully. She's disappointed that this lead turned up nothing, but she is relieved he's okay. She tells him that they both are fine, her words warm and comforting. “Will's a little on edge,” she adds, her voice thick with remorse. “He doesn't want to go to sleep. We've been watching movies all night.”

Mulder winces a little. “Poor kid.” He feels horrible for everything that's happened over these past few days, everything William's been through. He never wanted this for his son. 

“I know,” Scully says softly. There's an audible pause, only her breaths coming over the line, and then she says, “Get some sleep, Mulder. We'll be okay.”

He takes her advice and lies down to sleep, planning to leave and head home as soon as he wakes up. 

When he opens his eyes again, he's lying on the couch in the living room and he can't move. He can feel Scully by his feet, snoring softly with the dog curled in her lap. He strains in an attempt to see her, trying to turn over, but he's trapped in place, paralyzed. And besides, he realizes as it becomes clear what is happening, she couldn't hear him even if he could move. 

“Sorry, Dad,” his son says from somewhere beside him. Mulder suddenly feels the weight pinning him in place move away; he rolls over to see Will sitting in the chair next to the couch. “I know you hate these dreams,” William adds. 

Mulder breathes a sigh of relief, grunts a little as he sits up. He hasn't had one of these dreams in years, and it always scares the shit out of him when he does, but he can hardly criticize the motivation behind them, especially at a time like this. “That's okay,” he says. “Is everything okay, Will? Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, I just…” William rubs at his forehead, stressedly runs his fingers through his hair. “I just wanted you to know that… Mom's okay.” His voice is layered with guilt and fear, worry. “And I'm okay. We… we're both okay.” He chews at his lower lip, pushes his hair back again as he looks at the ground. “I know you were worried about leaving, so… I wanted you to know.”

Mulder swallows back tears, reaches out and squeezes his son's bony shoulder. It's a dream, it shouldn't feel real, but somehow, somehow it does. “Thank you,” he says softly. “I know this is hard. I'm so sorry you have to go through it.”

William swallows with effort, looks up at him. His eyes are dark in the dimness of the dream. (Mulder has noted the strangeness of this communication more than once; he tries not to dwell on it more than he needs to.) “Did you find him?” he asks in a low voice. “My grandfather?”

Mulder flinches at that; he hates any reference to the connection between his son and that son of a bitch. “No,” he says in quiet regret. He's still upset he didn't find anything; he'd hoped to finish this before it got started.  

William chews at his lower lip again, sighs a little. “We’ll get him eventually,” he says, with conviction. 

He hears a muddled voice that sounds like Scully in the background, saying something to Will, and then the dream is falling away, fading into nothing. Mulder wakes up cold on top of the bedspread. 

He gets up, checks out of the hotel, and drives home to his family.

 

**vi.**

After it’s all over, in the aftermath of William’s abduction and Spender’s death, Scully insists on calling an ambulance. William is insisting that he’s fine, it barely even hurts anymore and he just wants to go home, but the bullet hole in his forehead makes Mulder inclined to agree with Scully. He peels his jacket, damp from hugging William, and drapes it over his son’s skinny frame. “You’re going to the hospital,” Scully says firmly, sitting on the ground beside their son, a hand on his back. Mulder pulls out his cell phone, turns away and dials the number. 

He rattles off the address with a clinical stature that feels entirely false. He just killed his father. He just watched his son die with his face. It’s understandable that he’d be a little traumatized. He swallows unevenly. When the operator asks him what the issue is, he says, “My son’s… hurt. We just need an ambulance, okay? I don't want to talk about it.”

There’s a sudden sound of retching behind him. He turns in a panic and sees Scully bent over the pavement, vomiting. William is kneeled behind her, whispering in a low voice. Mulder hangs up the phone and nearly runs to her side. “It’s okay, Mom, it’s okay,” Will whispers. “I’m okay.”

Scully breathes raspily as she finishes, sitting back on her haunches. Mulder pushes sweaty strands of hair out of her face gently. “I’m fine,” she says firmly, tearfully. 

Mulder kisses the side of her head, takes her hand and helps her to her feet. His heart is pounding so hard that he can feel it everywhere. Far off, he hears the wailing of sirens. There is a bench, and he motions towards it. “You two go sit down,” he whispers, “okay? Wait for the ambulance over there. It’s okay.”

William nods as he gets up, lays one hand on his mother’s arm. His eyes are full of fear; Scully’s are full of a quiet sort of grief. The two of them walk towards the bench, Scully’s hand covering her stomach like she still feels sick. Mulder hears William say, quietly, “When are you going to tell Dad?” He doesn't dwell on it. He walks towards the house, to make sure Reyes and Skinner are all right. 

When the ambulance arrives, followed by a cluster of police cars, Reyes and Skinner volunteer to talk to them. Mulder stays with his family. The paramedics don't put William on a stretcher; the three of them climb up on their own. The paramedics seem to be confused by the wound on William's forehead. They cluster around him, checking him out, while Scully barks out fierce instructions in her trembling voice. “Mom, you need to get checked out, too,” William says, and Scully looks a little taken aback, but she nods. 

Mulder wraps an arm around her shoulders, rubbing a hand up and down her arm, and she turns to him and says, “Stay with Will,” in a firm voice. He nods silently. 

At the hospital, Scully leans over and kisses William's forehead before going off in another direction. They take William upstairs to an observation room and tell Mulder that a doctor will be right with them. 

Mulder sits down next to the bed, the fatigue of the day catching up to him. William sits on top of the bed, still soaking wet, huddled up in the wool of the jacket.  _ You don't need to worry,  _ William says suddenly, his voice cutting through Mulder's skull like a knife.  _ About Mom, I mean. Or… or about me. _

_ Will, are you okay?  _ he says silently, assuming that communicating telepathically will help William feel safe.  _ Did they hurt you? _

William gulps a little, fisting the side of the jacket he's still wearing.  _ They drugged me. But aside from the, uh… this… _ He waves a hand at his forehead, and Mulder winces.  _ I'm fine,  _ he finishes.

Mulder closes his eyes a little in relief. He keeps seeing his son—himself—falling down into that water, again and again. Like Linda Bowman in the warehouse all those years ago. He can't shake it. He can't believe that Will is here with him. He leans forward in a jerky movement and hugs his son. William hugs him back, quivering in his grip. Mulder blinks back tears, rubs his son's back briefly before pulling away.  _ I'm sorry,  _ he says, the way he said it out on the dock, wipes his eyes quickly.  _ I'm so sorry, Will. We should've seen this coming. This never should've happened. _

William shudders a little, his teeth chattering.  _ It's okay,  _ he says, but Mulder can tell he doesn't mean it.  _ I mean, it's not going to happen anymore because you killed him, and it… it…  _ He shudders again, ducking his head; his shoulders shake as he cries softly. Mulder leans forward again and wraps an arm around William's shoulders, holds his son as he cries. So close, he was so close to losing him. He can still hear Scully's sobs—the way they sounded painful, as if someone was forcing them out of her—feel the cold horror coursing through his own body. William shakes as he cries, quietly, and Mulder holds onto him.  _ I've got you,  _ he says again and again.  _ I've got you.  _

They both calm, slowly, Mulder still hugging William awkwardly. William's head is bent down so that Mulder can't see his face; he takes a few shaky breaths and wipes his eyes, straightening up. Mulder smooths William's wild hair and leans back. William looks at him gingerly, the wound in his forehead practically screaming. Mulder gulps.  _ So,  _ he says tentatively, in an attempt to change the subject.  _ Why does your mom need to get checked out?  _

William actually grins a little, briefly, shakes his head and looks down.  _ I'll let Mom fill you in on that one,  _ he says. 

And then Scully is appearing in the doorway, teary with a sort of relieved air about her, and she's coming into the room and wrapping her arms around both of them, and despite the terror that has gripped them all in recent moments, the horror of the whole fucking situation, Mulder can't help but think of this in later years as a happy memory. 

 

**vii.**

They're sitting out in the yard under the stars, by a fire that Mulder spend half the afternoon making. The dogs are curled up just where the circle of light ends, Daggoo lying on top of Fed’s back. (Fed has grown somewhat cynical with age; he just huffs and lets it happen.) Scully is napping in a position that cannot be comfortable, sitting upright on a log and leaning back into Mulder. He's always teased her about being able to sleep anywhere, and he is right. His hand is absently resting over her stomach. 

William is roasting marshmallows, already halfway through the bag. The scar on his forehead is faded, barely visible where he's let his hair grow wild in a way that makes Scully cringe. He's answering a text on his phone when he says it, in a very casual, slightly snarky way that reminds Mulder of the hands-off way Scully showed affection when she was younger.  _ Oh, yeah. Happy Father's Day, Dad. _ He looks up from the glowing screen of his phone and smirks at him. 

And as always, it takes Mulder a moment to realize he's not speaking out loud.


End file.
